


walk among the monsters you have made

by ossapher



Series: when the books give up their dead- series [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (magical) body horror, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Britain Victorious, Gen, Metafiction, literal monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: By all accounts the war of words has been an enormous success for Britain and a personal triumph for John Andre. The war is over, and all that remains for Andre is to tie up a few loose ends in the Patriot camp. But victory is plagued by complications, and Andre must wrestle with the consequences of what he has written into being...





	walk among the monsters you have made

**Author's Note:**

> A bonus story in the universe of "When the Books Give Up Their Dead," and a hint at things to come. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own. Comments make my day!

He'd always thought of himself as an artist. In words, carefully selected to conceal or to insinuate, there was art, just as there was in a convincing smile, just as there was in the elegant footwork of a minuet. He’d taught himself music, drawing, poetry, dance: all the refinements that Society expected of a man of stature. Yet the very earnestness with which he approached them—the very talent he dared display— gave the game away. He was always striving, never effortless; he couldn’t bring himself not to care, to fail with the insouciance of the truly well-bred. Every interaction is a test, and he’s determined to pass.

The blue-bloods smell it on him. It’s an instinct. General Clinton adores him as a loyal, efficient, brilliant, refined, and above all gentlemanly ornament to his staff. He’d been generally well-liked, or at least had made no powerful enemies. But he knows some part of him frightens them, deep down. That he might not know his place, that he might one day strive to rise too far. And there had been a complementary fear in him: that they might lack the ambition and the determination necessary to win the war.

That fear, at least, has been laid to rest. They had been thrilled when André and Seabury had come forward with their plan: the greatest unwriting ever attempted, a feat of sorcerous might that would consign the rebels to oblivion and leave Britain’s enemies and colonies across the world trembling at the example. Their only reservations were quickly laid to rest when André promised he would do the dirty work of writing over, of crafting the monstrous identities that would take the places of their enemies. Naturally a gentleman would not tarnish another gentleman’s reputation. But for the son of a merchant, such as André…

The first irony: that after all the insistence on refinement, on manners, on minor and practically useless artistic achievements, Britain had deemed it necessary for him to drop all of those and write a story that bled, that bellowed, that could rip a man’s soul clean out of the world.

The second: that a year ago, André would have counted himself lucky to receive an invitation to dinner with a minor Lord or Lady of London society, and that now, that he has revealed himself capable of historically unprecedented intellectual barbarity— well, he shall be elevated. Society will be vying to lick his boots, when he returns.

His horse shies, and André’s attention is rudely returned to the present. Quickly getting the animal under control, he scans the area to see what could have startled it. The road so far today has been almost totally abandoned; after all, Seabury only brought the unwriting to a close yesterday, and the ink is only just beginning to wash from the sky. André’s eyes fall upon a great skein of darkness tangled in the limbs of a tree, flapping almost like a flag in the wind. Curious, he dismounts and approaches. In composition the darkness is almost like dense cobwebbing, but there is some unusual movement to it, almost as though the filaments are swarming with ants. As he looks closer he delightedly realizes that the ants are letters, marching round and round on their strings. He wonders if he might be able to read his own compositions here, since they formed the foundation for the unwriting—but the swarming letters hurt his head, and part of him wonders if reading them directly might be a bad idea, if he might wipe his own memory of current events or worse. It wouldn’t do to believe his own lies, now, would it?

Instead of mounting his horse again, André decides to continue afoot. After all, he’s well within the former borders of the darkness. The Army encampment, if his intelligence is reliable—and he’s confident it is—lies only a few more miles up ahead, and he doesn’t want to risk his mount becoming panicked, or being devoured. After all, as far has he understands it the protections apply only to himself, hence his lack of retinue. He ties the horse to a tree on a long lead, making sure the grass around is plentiful.

He passes many more hanks of darkness, some piles as big as a haywagon’s load strewn across the road, some just little wisps catching dew in the tall grass, some garlanding trees like Spanish moss. André certainly _feels_ like he’s spilled enough ink to drown an army, and seeing this extended visual metaphor for the his titanic undertaking is deeply satisfying. Oh, yes, eventually he’d had his own battalion of clerks in support, but he’d toiled for weeks upon weeks with the work, the tendons of his wrist growing hot and screaming when he held a pen, the muscles of his neck and back knotted as wooden planks, his head and eyes throbbing constantly with no sleep and too much tea and candlelight, calluses and inkstains marring his fingers. After he’d handed the great piles of paper off to Seabury to work with, he’d collapsed in bed, only emerging into the light of day to receive General Clinton’s hearty congratulations on a job well done. That was the first he’d learned of his own spectacular success.

Now he wishes to see his creation with his own eyes. Before Seabury’s spellwork melts away under the late autumn rains. Before the monsters disperse.

A thrill runs through his veins at the thought. The weight of his sword at his back and the pistols at his sides provide visceral comfort, but those are for any bandits that might be so stupid as to venture into the area. For the monsters, André and Seabury had planned ahead, warned by dozens of examples from past unwritings. Creating a monster, without building in some kind of mechanism to prevent it from immediately savaging its creator, was sheer folly that the British have not been stupid enough to repeat. In theory, if André encounters one of the beasts, it should defer to him. And if that proves false, he will have to rely on whatever energy remains in Seabury’s rapidly-deteriorating spell, and in pen and paper and ink. It is not a prospect he relishes—but it will be more effective than pistols. Now that the fog of ink is lifting, the beasts will be coming into their immortality.

The farther he walks, the thicker the ink, until the words drift like black snow on the ground: a fitting simile, as some are still falling in tatters from the ink-streaked sky. It’s a good deal more blue than black now, and that’s taken much of the air of doom away from the place. Still, André doubts any bandits have dared to come this far.

On the wind comes the faint tang of burning, and André frowns. Ah, yes, that must be Hamilton. He can’t wait to see it.

The ink and letters grow thicker as he approaches camp, a tattered gray haze still hanging in the air with the sun valiantly piercing through. The wind freshens, and the sudden ray of sun falling on bronze nearly blinds him. Throwing up a hand and squinting, André struggles to make out its source, but—oh. Oh, of course. Laurens!

Of all the diversions he’s crafted, Laurens might be his favorite. He’s sure some in Whitehall will grumble that he’d elevated a rebel to heroism, but that had been the whole point. By conceding the rebels their one hero, André had given them an honorable out. Former so-called patriots could claim themselves deceived by Washington, by Congress, just as Laurens—well, André’s version of him, which is the only one that exists, now—had been deceived. He can be perfect and safely dead. And for those who worry that a hero such as Laurens will attract historians’ interest, will prove recoverable where a monster might never have been, well, André has heard enough of the man to know that he was no angel, not as André has made him into. He doubts, too, that many of Earth’s fallen souls will feel any deep kinship with such a flawless creation. And in any case, the great gesture towards amicable reconciliation is worth the risk. There will be no cycle of vengeance and death in America, not if John André has anything to say about it.

So eagerly does André start forward to see the statue that he misses the creature that flings itself out of the gloom at him, teeth bared, hackles up. When he recollects that day to General Clinton, and then later to Miss Shippen, André will elide his scream. As far as history is concerned, it never happened.

In any case, the creature doesn’t merit a scream, being only the size of a small terrier. It yaps at him furiously, eyes glaring. Hundreds of eyes, to be precise, pebbling the whole surface of its body in every conceivable color and make.

“Tallmadge,” André breathes, and the dog yowls as though in pain. His rival chief of intelligence: Washington’s spymaster. André had harbored hope that Tallmadge might flee—had sensed, perhaps, a kindred spirit, and more pragmatically a chance to capture the mind of a man rather that monster, with all its secrets intact. Not that the Americans represent much of a military threat anymore, but André is nothing if not thorough. There are gaps in the narrative—agent or agents unidentified in New York City, for one—that he would dearly love to fill.

If the precautions that he and Seabury put in place have taken, then the dog will not bite him. In fact…

“Heel,” André commands, pointing at the ground. The dog’s growl cuts off in a high whine, and it falls in behind him as he steps forward to view the statue. Oh, it’s _beautiful_. André has never seen Laurens’ face, but the man before him gives the impression of being almost real. He watches it carefully for a few moments to make sure it’s not breathing. Oh, the thing is wasted all the way out here in the Pennsylvania countryside; they must have copies made—they must put them in every city in America. The people must _see_ this.

Beyond the statue he occasionally spots other dogs, or dog-like creatures. In the inky mist it’s difficult to make out particular shapes, so he can’t tell who’s who, but it seems as though nearly all the aides-de-camp have stayed close. He’d tended to make those small and canine, befitting their lowly positions and their loyalty to Washington. There had been one exception: in Hamilton, the social-climbing, overambitious, low-born bastard, André had detected a kindred spirit, and decided no cringing dog would do.

He wants to see him. André strides past Laurens’ pedestal and into camp.

The smell of burning intensifies, and with it André’s sense of foreboding. Ostensibly General Clinton has sent him here to collect intelligence information, salvage whatever papers he can. The smell isn’t promising, in that respect.

A few yards in he finds his first smoldering wreck, a near-perfect rectangular footprint of a tent. In places the ashes are cool enough to sift through. He finds nothing of use to a spy: blackened iron belt buckles, spurs, pen nibs, the half-melted remains of several tin messkits. Not far past he finds another rectangle, much the same. And another. And another.

The whole camp has been torched.

Were it not for the total impossibility of another human surviving the camp, André would almost think the destruction deliberate, so thoroughly have his aims been thwarted. It doesn’t seem likely that even a fire-breather such as Hamilton could have chanced to burn to totally every single tent and scrap of paper in the camp. But given the choice between the unlikely and the impossible, he must accept the unlikely, much as it galls his suspicious nature to do so. He curses himself for his casual choice of ability for the beast—fire-breathing had seemed the perfect metaphor for the blazing fury, the intensity and the clear light of Hamilton’s pamphlets. André had been proud of it. After all, the best lies were merely distortions of truths. Hamilton’s monster has its claws deep in reality. As a fire-breather, it will have a deeper and more durable hold in the minds of the people. And yet… he’d wished he’d paused a moment to consider the practical implications.  

On his second, desperate pass through the camp he stumbles over an obstacle half-buried by ash and tangled up in great streamers of inky words. Though his gloves are ruined in the process, André extricates the thing, gagging as the smell hits. It’s the half-burnt corpse of a creature about the size of a Great Dane, with cloven hooves and a glossy black mane. Most of the face has burnt away, revealing a jaw with protruding tusks and razor-sharp teeth.

Meade, André thinks, feeling sick. He’d known this was a risk— legends are at their most vulnerable at the point of their making, when only one source exists. From the beginning, he and Seabury had accepted the small chance that the more powerful monsters might destroy the smaller. To judge by the obvious burns, Hamilton’s done away with this one. André finds himself confronted with a paradoxical relief that Meade’s immortal soul, at least, has escaped the fate that Hamilton’s is now destined for. Not out of any affection for Meade, whom he’s never met...but it’s a terrible fate.

And now André is completely confident in his assessment that no human being could have entered camp before him. The ashes from some of the tents haven’t even cooled completely; Hamilton must still be near. And not even another monster can survive Hamilton.

As if to immediately refute him, a boy starts to cry.

André startles, casting his eyes about.

“Papa,” the boy whimpers. “Papa, no, please…”

In answer comes a rumble like the opening of the stone doors of Hell. André’s whole body courses cold. Not Hamilton—he made Hamilton chattering-mad, a flippant and ridiculous creature. That can only be…

He dives into his satchel, pulls out paper and pen and ink, and hurries towards the boy’s voice. He has no idea how a child could come to be in the encampment, nor does he spend long to think upon it. All he knows is that the poor thing is in mortal danger. Not even other soldiers of the Crown would be safe here, much less civilians. Walking as quickly as he can while maintaining some stealth, he approaches the sounds.

As he breaks through the thick swirl of word-fog, clear daylight paints the scene. A red-eyed creature, so grotesque he can barely look at it, twice the height of a bull and just as bulky, with metal spikes growing straight from its skull like the mockery of a crown. And sprawled on the ground before him is a little boy in a too-big general’s uniform, a toy wooden sword dropped on the ground at his feet.

Christ, he’s fallen for his own trick. He’d forgotten Lafayette.

Oh, God, why had he done this? He’d admired the man’s sincerity and purity of motive, even as he’d snickered at his naievete. It had seemed too cruel to turn the young French aristocrat into a dog-creature, even as he’d cheerfully consigned all his friends to that fate and worse. André had let him keep a human shape, one approximating his own, even! A perpetual childhood, free from fear and barbarity.

“Papa,” the boy cries again. Moving like a creature in pain, he leans over to the sword, which he takes in his hands. Then he drives it point-down into the ground and levers himself up, staggering a step before collapsing to his knees.

Washington tilts its enormous head to one side, as though considering whether the child will make a worthwhile snack. The claws of its enormous front feet unsheath like a cat’s.

André’s heart goes to his throat. He dips pen in ink, spreads a leaf of parchment awkwardly over his thigh, and writes.

 _The Tyrant Washington recalled his home at Mount Vernon and was suddenly seized by the desire to go there. His retinue of monsters followed after, except for young Lafayette, who was too terrified to move_.

André prays there’s enough energy left in Seabury’s working to power the words. Otherwise, he’s about to witness the murder of a totally innocent creature— and he _knows_ Lafayette is totally innocent because he _wrote_ him that way.

The beast turns its head southward, its great nostrils flaring. It looses a great bellow, and André, protected as he is, is unprepared. He staggers back, losing his footing and crashing down into a tangle of words that splatter his clothing with ink. For a moment he lays there, stunned as though his senses have all been blasted out of his brain. By the time the world reassembles itself, Washington is gone.

A small bundle in dark blue is all André can make out of Lafayette. He scrambles over. The bundle shakes, high, animal whines emanating from inside. Lafayette is sobbing with fear.

Hurriedly André retrieves his pen and paper and strikes out the phrase _too terrified to move._ There’d been no real purpose to it, anyway, only he’d written in haste. Too quick to add that little flash of detail to make the story plausible, too slow to consider the consequences. Well, if that hasn’t just been the theme for the day…

“Papa?” the boy asks, lifting his head. “Are you my papa?”

André’s whole body goes cold again. “In… in a sense.”

The boy’s whole face lights up. “Papa!” he cries. He flings himself towards André, wrapping his arms round his neck and clinging. He looks like a boy, but he feels light and insubstantial and flimsy as a scarecrow. The springy curls of his hair tickle André’s chin. He’s trembling awfully, and André instinctively wraps his arms back around the boy and rocks him.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, even as his rational mind shrieks _you fool! He isn’t real!_

But he _is_ real. André made him real.

André’s _responsible_ for him.

The boy squrims out of André’s embrace, stumbling backwards and falling on his bum in the dust. “Papa, papa, do you want to play soldiers? Papa, papa, can we go to war? Can we, can we, can we?”

Now that André’s seeing the boy’s front for the first time, his eyes go to the three parallel gouges through his chest. They’re leaking what looks like black blood: ink.

“Doesn’t that hurt, my boy?” he asks, pointing.

The boy looks down. When he sees the wounds, his lower lip trembles. He looks back up at André, lost. “Can we go to war?” His voice breaks.

He can’t say that it hurts. Because…because André didn’t allow him those words. He gave Lafayette a few stock phrases, that was all. Just enough to sketch in the character of a boy who wished to be a soldier.

In spite of its fierce words, André knows this monster to be the trustingest creature in the world. It has no powers, no animal strength, no cleverness—not even a sense of its own vulnerability. At least Laurens is bronze and therefore beyond all depredation; the boy-creature that is Lafayette can still suffer, and if it’s in camp when the bandits and other opportunists arrive, it most certainly will.

André makes up his mind in an instant. He stands and walks over to the wooden sword and places it in the boy’s arms. “Hold this for me, please, there’s a good lad.”

“Yes, Papa.”

André kneels and scoops the boy off the ground. He weighs nearly nothing, so it’s not difficult at all for André to carry him. Soon his head is nodding forward, his eyes drooping. “Can we… can we go to war?” he yawns, rubbing his eyes.

“We already did, sonny,” André says. The word sounds sour in his mouth, but the instant he says it, it knits into his heart. The fabric of the world is still malleable, under this sky. “I’m afraid I won.”


End file.
